1

JUNEAU

I CROUCH LOW TO THE GROUND, PRESSING MY back to the ancient spruce tree, and raise my crossbow in one hand. Keeping my eye on the precious shard of mirror embedded in my weapon, I inch it out from behind the tree. In the reflection, I spot something moving behind a cedar across the snowy clearing.

From the cracking of branches to my right, I know that another foe lurks nearby. I can’t see the inevitable scars and pockmarks from nuclear fallout, the radiation damage. But it’s there. I’ll have to take my chances. You have to be tough to survive an apocalypse.

I leap from behind the tree, duck as I see a missile hurtling toward me from a low scrub of holly bush, and simultaneously shoot in front of me. I hit the ground and roll, leaping back to my feet.

“I hit you!” yells a voice from the bushes. I hear a rustling of leaves, and then my friend Nome pops out, her hair glowing like burnished gold against the green and red holly.

“No you didn’t!” I yell back, but then I look down at where she’s pointing. Gooseberry pulp drips off the sleeve of my buckskin parka. “It’s just my arm. It wouldn’t have been lethal,” I say, flicking off the fruit sludge. But I know that though it wouldn’t have killed me on the spot, I would have been injured. And any injury would slow me down. Nome’s gooseberry would have meant my eventual death in the case of a true attack on our village.

Kenai steps from behind the cedar with a moose antler in his hand. He has painted an evil face on the wide part of the horn, and my arrow protrudes from its forehead.

“Bull’s-eye,” he says, and begins to make gurgling sounds as his homemade brigand suffers a painful and drawn-out demise. Trust Kenai to lighten a heavy moment.

The antler’s death throes are interrupted by Nikiski, who runs up with his hands in the air. “Cease-fire,” he yells, and then grins widely to show two missing front teeth. “Juneau, Whit wants you to come see him in the school. Something about hunting. Something about being low on meat. And Dennis wants you two”—Nikiski gestures to Kenai and Nome—“to drop by the library for something about a project he wants you to do.”

“Thank you for that precise and informative message,” Kenai says, ruffling Nikiski’s hair with his hand as he walks past the boy toward the village. “Battle officially over,” he calls behind him. “Brigand slain, but Junebug injured. Ten points to Nome.”

Nome lets out a whoop and then, shoving her slingshot inside her parka, jogs over to me. When she sees my expression, her playful mood deflates. “It’s okay, Juneau. Like you said, it wouldn’t have been lethal.”

I’m silent. She sighs deeply as we begin walking toward the village. “Juneau, you can’t be perfect. You’re going to be clan Sage, not our sole protector.”

“I’d rather be prepared to do both,” I respond.

“You’re seventeen, Juneau. And you’re already carrying the weight of the clan on your shoulders.”

I don’t respond. But inside, I acknowledge it: I’m just a teenager now, but one day the well-being of a few dozen people will be in my hands. It’s a heavy burden—one I know I must carry. Why else would I have been given my gift?

We crest the hill. Before us crouches the Great Ice Bear: Mount Denali, scraping its sugar-white pelt against the sky. And between its foothills and the forest are nestled twenty yurts. The light-colored skins stretched across the roofs and sides of the yurts make them almost invisible against the snow—a necessary camouflage.

It’s been thirty years since the war. My parents and fifteen others escaped in the very last hours, after the first firestorm of nuclear explosions triggered the aftermath . . . the creeping death of radiation and famine and genocide. They came here to Alaska’s unspoiled territory, far from any city that would have been targeted for destruction.

Although little was left in the wake of the Final War, it would be foolish to think we were the only survivors. Over the decades, during their rare scouting trips, the elders have found evidence. Abandoned cars run on the scarce drops of fuel that remained after the oil fields burned. Human trails left just beyond the boundaries of our territory. Sounds from the air of a lone renegade flying machine.

But there haven’t been any new signs found for a long time. Only a handful of close calls since I was born—seventeen years ago. The only deaths have been accidents: one by bear attack, and then my own mother’s death when her sled broke through lake ice.

These are the cautionary tales we are brought up with. Instead of the bogeyman (who terrified my mom as a child), our nightmares are populated with armed brigands roaming the land to plunder what is left. Merciless survivors of the apocalypse, bent upon taking what our clan has worked so hard to preserve: clean food and water and immunity from the radiation and disease that will, in the end, finish off the outside world.

A rebirth. That is what the clan hopes for. What Whit teaches us will happen. But it could take centuries. Millennia. Our goal is survival.

“See you later,” I say to Nome as we arrive, and jog ahead of her toward the school yurt. Once through the door flap, it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust from the blinding reflection of sun on snow to the soft light filtering through the open crown of the yurt and the glow of the schoolroom’s fire.

I brush off my moccasins and leave them with my crossbow next to the door. If Whit’s teaching the younger children, it means he’s explaining the Yara. Which before long will be my job. When I was four—just after my mother’s death—Whit tested me and found I was able to Conjure. Besides him and my mother, I am the only one of my tribe capable.

In three years I will undergo the Rite, and will then take his place as clan Sage, as my mother should have if she were still alive. So recently Whit’s left more and more of the clan Readings to me and has begun to show me how he Conjures, being careful what he shows me, since I can duplicate his results with ease.

“Why don’t you join us, Juneau?” Whit asks. The children are seated in a half circle around him. Nikiski’s there—he must have sprinted back—and next to him are Tanaina, Wasilla, and Healy, ready to hear Whit’s lesson, one he repeats for all age groups several times a year. I’ve heard it so many times, I could recite it by heart.

I sit down next to Whit as he pours a layer of ground mica on the floor. The firelight reflects in it, making it sparkle. The young children watch, their attention caught and held by the glistening powder.